“Mamma, when I was a child, I was happy dressing my dolls and playing with my pets; when I was a school-girl I was contented pursuing my studies and talking with my governess; but all these things have passed away with childhood and girlhood. I am a woman now, with all a woman’s craving for human society, sympathy, and affection. Oh, if I speak plainly, I cannot help it! I feel every hour in the day, and every minute in the hour, that there is something fearfully wrong here and here!” said Alma, placing her hand upon her head and heart. “And, mamma, believe me, that I feel, if this dreadful hunger of the heart and mind is not satisfied, idiotcy or death must be the result. Mamma, I was happier during the hour that I passed with poor Eudora in her prison-cell, than I have ever been in all the years that I have passed in this splendid living tomb. And why, mamma—why? Only because in that wretched prison-cell I was at least en rapport with another human creature!”
“Alma, come to the point—what is it you wish me to do?”
“Mamma bear with me a little while. I was about to say that it was this utter, utter loneliness of life and heart, that laid me so open to the advances of almost any person, man, woman, or child, who might have crossed my path—for the starving will eat husks rather than perish; but Providence sent across my path a noble-minded man, my equal in birth, intellect, and position. He esteemed me, and won my esteem. He asked the sanction of my parents to his addresses, and his overtures were rejected by them. He loved me, and so he haunted the neighborhood of my home only to be near me. From childhood I have been accustomed to walk in those woods where he often accidentally met me. Yesterday I walked as usual in those woods. I will not deceive you, mamma, or say that I did not secretly hope he might be walking there also. He was; and we met. We had not spoken together for a very long time, and it was then so late in the evening that our interview was necessarily very short. And so we agreed to meet again this afternoon—to meet as betrothed lovers, who are to marry as soon as they both obtain their majority; for, mamma, there must come a time, when, if I live, I shall be free, by the laws of God and man, to give my hand where my heart has long been given—and I have promised, when that time shall come, to be the wife of Norham Montrose, and, mamma, I mean to keep my promise! There, mamma, I have told you all.”
It was impossible that that white-faced woman could have become whiter, but now a livid grayness crept over her features that also seemed to harden into stone. It was in a low, level, ominous monotone that she repeated:
“You have told me all—now what is it you wish me to do?”
“Oh, mamma, pity me, take me to your heart, give me your confidence, make me happy—it will take but a little to do that! Recall Norham Montrose; give him your sanction to visit me here in your house—here under your eye!” prayed Alma, with clasped hands and beseeching eyes.
“I am glad that you have spoken so plainly, girl, for now I can answer you; and you must take that answer to be as final and immutable as though the words were sealed by the most solemn and binding oaths. And my answer is this—that you must never see Captain Montrose again!”
“Oh, mamma, mamma, tell me at least why you object to him. Is it his birth, his position, or his character?” exclaimed Alma, earnestly.
“It is neither. His birth, position, and character might fairly entitle him to wed any young lady in the land.”
“Is there, then, any family feud between his House and mine, such as sometimes divide——”